Patrick T. Dupras 

In a Shaded Apocalypse of Heated Shame
 

We whisper freely through coarse winds,

Desperate to move from our hollow belongings,

Our soul, our incantations are rested and revitalized

with every embrace,

Sometimes I feel like a pair of shackles haunting

these pulses less wrists yet at the same time calming

this cynics mind.

Love can swallow as well as inhabit the teachings and

surroundings of man,

For it flows through veins like the blood the heart

yearns and needs for its survival.

Leaving behind the gravest mistakes is never an easy

task nor shall it ever be,

For allow thy light to be the beacon for your travels,

A soft touch can soothe this tattered skin,

A kiss can seal the future as well as dissolve its

belief,

For tomorrow beckons the enlightening possibilities

that thou have been searching for.

Endless and mesmerizing, I hear your sweet voice chime

through my walls as if the angels were forced to

retreat the heavens.

Beautiful and proud, it races through my memories like

being captured inside your eyes,

For a million stars that shatter and die within the

galaxy, I am prepared for thou inspiration, you are

forever my muse, my reason, my strength.

For the greatest of speakers never uttered such

phrases nor spoke in such tongues,

For all this time maybe you thought you've done so

little,

But for this once damaged heart, you have done so

much.

Noose Over Time

There's no time to bleed or die, there's no time to

live or dream. There's a noose I hurry to...there's a

clock on the wall...there's a seam in this sweater, I

pull out to tie around my throat. Keep this empty mug

for memories while I fuck all your thoughts away, keep

the gates open for me St. Pete...keep the gift of hope

maintained or I can just go all out and say fuck it.

I'll just die. Your face resembles maggots and ice

cream as I smear hatred and anxiety all over your

floor. Trip over the bodies, more dead than a flowing

business/mortuary. As I become the undertaking clown.

Fuck the paint off my smiling face, wipe off this

cracking skin, loose lips are the average problem for

retired prostitutes and call girls. Ladies and

Gentlemen the whore of the century, the whore of

reforming privilege. I gouge her eyes out quickly.

She can't cry any more. Her tears are symphonies or

annoying songs, played all day long. I grab her face

and stab my thumbs into her eye sockets. Feel the

pain, see the sting. As I enter the problem of you

with an empty head, a closed fist, and an empty

chamber. No bullets left in the top drawer. I'll have

to finally sever my tongue so the feline can have it

because after all these years of aggravating comments

I'm at loss for words...With all this shit I have to

endure day in and day out, the punch clock that is my

life. Throughout this babbling did you notice that not

once did I rhyme, for because of all this shit I deal

with I will eventually choose the noose over time.